Summary: Because one frozen assassin was not enough. So when they found the one-armed Xanxus, they apparently couldn't resist. Scum. Xanxus only wanted to go home.

Disclaimer: Neither Katekyo Hitman Reborn! nor Captain America (or Marvel) is mine.

Warnings: Language (because Xanxus), Winter Soldier-y references (abuse, torture, mind wipes?), others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings

Rating: T

Word Count: 8060

Author's Note: Just wanted to write some Xanxus in Marvel Universe. And, lately, people started wrtiting him and I was like "I wrote Xanxus too! But I don't want people to read it because it's not good!" but at the same time I wanted people to read it. So. Here it is. With a lot of mistakes and OOC and choppy and ugly, but here. Ugh. Don't take anything personally (the thing with the countries was invented for this story specifically, it's not something I believe in, so don't rage about it, ok?). There may (will definitely) be things than don't add up, mistakes, grammar or something else but I don't have any strength to fish for them anymore so if you see anything, tell me so that I can fix it.

.Chapter 1.

"We will make it into a perfect weapon. After all, the Winter Soldier project was a success. They are sure that it cannot be replicated. What a load of bullshit. We were the ones who made the Winter Soldier into what he is today. The ones to achieve greatness. And we will do it again."

"But what about the serum? We don't have it anymore."

"The subject is strong enough. You know it. He wouldn't be alive otherwise."

"Indeed. With the amount of blood he lost he should have died but he lives still. He is trully an excellent choice for this experiment."

"The filthy Germans. They can keep the soldier now. We have a new one."

...

Machines were beeping slowly (he could hear that the heart monitor didn't even so much as twitch at his awakening, he was Quality, after all, trained out of all the tells that could betray him and lead him to death). And he awoke suddenly, just like he trained himself to, becoming aware of the world at the slightest provocation. And what was currently happening was a provocation. It was cold. His mind was groggy from some drugs. Hands were touching him, prodding and ghosting over his skin. Tubes and electrodes were stuck to and in his body. People were talking. Xanxus was pissed. It was fucking cold.

He was lying on his back, on a metal table, half naked save for his boxers. They took off his coat, shirt, trousers and even boots, these pieces of trash. From the lack of tickling at the base of his neck, they must have removed the feathers, too. Just from this, he knew that he was nowhere safe, as Varia wouldn't leave him in such piss poor conditions and wouldn't touch his feathers for fear of death, somewhere so cold and shitty, and Vongola would know better than to tamper with him at all and would leave him to Varia.

So the people around him were not allies. Nor did they know that Xanxus could crush them all like the fuckin' cockroaches they were. Civilians then? But why would Varia allow them to have him. Why would they allow a Mafia member (Varia's own leader and boss no less) to wake up in such filthy and foreign environment. They must have lost the Battle, clearly, as everyone knew better than to leave him alone in close proximity to civilians, which he could (would) kill in less than few minutes.

He breathed, the Battle of Rainbow was lost, the Arcobaleno will die. His stomach curled uncomfortably, rage twisting his very intestines. That would mean that Mammon will soon die. Or was already dead. Anger rose in him, his heart speeding up.

But him being in this place, alone, without the rest of Varia, without Vongola, it meant that all of them were dead or incapacitated in some way or unable to come and get him. Wrath stirred in him. They better be fuckin' dead because there wasn't any other explanation (he would accept no other explanation) for leaving him here and not coming to get him.

A hand traced the scars across his chest and his patience snapped.

Who do these scum think they were, interrupting his rest and jarring him around? He will fuck them up.

His eyes snapped open as he sat up and, his left hand striking out and grabbing at the nearest white lab coat, pulling and throwing the screaming man like a ragdoll.

He snarled and reached for the next one, feeling dark satisfaction when the rest scrambled to get away from him and tripped over their own feet. The woman he held now was wriggling to get free so he transferred his hold from her lab coat to her neck. She immediately stopped moving, a soft sound escaping her lips. Her shocked wide blue eyes darted around and settled on his own, red wine ones, narrowed in a look of perpetual annoyance. He tugged her closer and she started struggling again, stopping only after he squeezed her neck all the tighter, cutting off her air supply.

"Who the fuck are you, scum," he demanded, voice rough from disuse and cold. The cold. He was going to slaughter whoever put him in a room so shittin' cold.

The woman wheezed, fingers clawing weakly at his scarred hand. His left hand, his right one was-

He looked down sharply, and the next sound that came from him would have been recognized as a gasp of disbelief by the Varia (or just Levi, the fuckin' creep, cataloging his responses to everything like the perverse scum he was). As it was, to the scientists around him, it was only a snarl, although this one was more furious than the last one.

His arm wasn't there. All the way down from the elbow it was gone. He stared at it in disbelief. He had a fuckin' stump instead of an arm. Blood soaked bandages were wrapped around the rest of his right arm. It felt numb.

The Vindice scum hacked it off, the fucker.

The next sound that left his lips made the already panicking scientists scramble to get out of the room, leaving the woman (who fainted and whose lips were turning blue) and his first victim (passed out or dead from the head wound from when Xanxus hurled him across the room) alone with him. The metal door slammed closed.

His gaze trained itself on the only other thing in the room that could possibly hold his interest. A metal table, smaller than the one he was sitting on, with his possessions on top of it. His bloodied coat and shirt, the feathers that someone must have removed from his hair, all of them were laid out on the metal surface, arranged for easy access and visual. There were also his boots lying there, along with his trousers. And on top of some handkerchief were four things which sight lessened the tension in his body, if only a little. His two X-Guns, his box weapon and his Varia ring.

He was in a hostile environment. He needed to get his weapons. Now.

Xanxus let go of the medic scum and roughly removed all the IV from his left (only, he laughed hysterically in his head) arm and ripped the electrodes stuck to his head and chest. He swung his legs off the table, tried to get to his feet and grunted as his knees buckled. The fuck was happening. He grabbed at the table for support and breathed. His limbs were trembling, his stomach was roiling, his vision was swimming.

Was there still something in his system. Did they drug him more than he thought. His Flames should have burned it all out.

He sluggishly looked around and finally spotted the white gas trickling in through the vents. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. His throat clamped around a roar that wanted to rip free. He would bid his time. He would get out of here. And when he did, his gaze fell on the figure of the woman lying at his feet, he will burn every-fucking-thing that contributed to his stay here.

His eyesight blurred, the world tilted and he felt himself falling forward. His knees hit the floor and he tried to brace his arms (arm, he had only one fucking arm now) on the floor but his left one was weak and trembling and there wasn't a right one anymore, he was a fuckin' cripple. His body felt heavy, weighted down, the sounds of the machines screeching around him got to him as if through water. He tilted to his right. Everything was fading.

...

He heard some talks in Japanese (heavily accented, not natives) and Russian, when he was treading on the edge of consciousness. They were short and not much could be gleaned from them. Xanxus tried to stay awake to as long as possible to listen because then he may have some idea about what was going on and what he was supposed to do now. How to act. He lied with his eyes closed (he didn't know if he had enough strength to open them if he tried), not twitching a muscle and listening.

"They know about subject number ten. They requested it to be relocated. They want it."

"I'm perfectly aware of it. They won't get it. We were the ones who found it. They have no right to it."

"They won't accept this. If we don't give it to them, they will take it by force."

"Let them try. Now come, there is much to do if we want to keep it with us."

"They will come for us. We must change our base. We need a place where they won't find us."

"Russia, then, comrade?"

"Russia it is."

...

The next time he awoke he was even more groggy than the last time. His perception was not as clear as last time. His head hurt, his eyelids were heavy but at least it wasn't cold anymore. Also, he could finally feel his right arm. Or rather its remains. It burned and itched like fuck.

And, unlike last time, he was sitting in a chair now. He was bound to it by his left wrist, at the biceps (at least his right one wasn't ignored, although it wasn't like he would do much with it as it was a useless fuckin' stump), ankles and around the chest.

He would have snorted if not for the fact that the bindings were not amateurish knots or plastic handcuffs. No. The chair he was sitting in was metal, specifically designed with metal cuffs for wrists and ankles. And there was some metal ring-aureole shit around his forehead. The fuck.

He sat for a while longer, slumped, his breaths quiet and slow, steady. Then, after a few minutes of silence and soft clinking and rattling coming from humans that flitted around him (there were two, males, and two more at the door, also males, he could smell and hear it, large shuffling steps, low voices, heavy breaths), he opened his eyes and raised his head.

The noises momentarily stopped and the four men gazed at him for a few seconds. Then there was a flurry of activity as two men in lab coats started blabbering at each other and the goons guarding the door pulled out their weapons. Two guns were levelled at his head and he would have laughed uproariously if he didn't know that it would only make his headache worse.

As it was he glared at them and then at the chattering scientists who were standing by some big-ass computer and exclaiming something in a strange mix of languages.

Xanxus knew many languages, he was supposed to be Vongola Decimo, of course he crammed as many languages as he could into his head (he wasn't stupid, he liked learning, especially useful things like languages which were to help him communicate with others, proudly representing his Family), but he couldn't decipher a word of what the two were saying, the mix of languages messing with his head and making his attention spin away from the actual talking. Everything was buzzing and humming and spinning.

It must be the drugs' fault, or they were talking in a code, his lack of focus contributed, too, and he couldn't make heads or tails of the text appearing on the big screen before him. There was some writings and some pictures but his head was fucking pounding and his muscles were aching and his Flames weren't working. The thought would have made him panic if his thoughts weren't muddled and foggy. As it was, he was growing more exhausted with every second.

He would have fallen back asleep if it wasn't for the sudden pain coursing through his whole body. His muscles were clenching and unclenching, his body was twitching and he was screaming. Screaming and swearing and cursing and roaring. Promising retribution and revenge in all the languages he could remember.

He stopped only when they shoved something into his mouth, to shut him up, make sure he wouldn't choke or bite his own tongue he didn't know and didn't care, clamping his teeth around the rubbery thing and holding on.

...

"The arm is a truly magnificent work. It looks even better than the original."

"Of course it does. We have the knowledge now and the technology is more advanced. This weapon is better than theirs will be."

...

He wasn't quite clear on why they attached the fucking hunk of cold-ass metal to the stump where his right hand once was, only that they did attach a heavy-ass fucking metal arm to his elbow and covered his bicep with the cold shit, too, all the way to the shoulder.

It didn't matter nearly as much as the fact that the arm was heavy as fuck. And now that he thought about it, his whole body felt different. Heavier.

Only later (during a check at the airport where his target was supposed to be dealt with and shit was that a bitch to find out, when he walked after the target through the gate and it started screeching) will he find out that they somehow inserted the same metal into his collarbone and ribs to make sure his bones wouldn't snap under the arm's weight.

They must have performed the operation when his brain was still foggy from the drugs and barely lucid. The scum.

A fucking prosthetic metal arm, Shark Trash would have pissed himself from laughing at the similarities they now shared, only, the arm didn't have a sword (or did it?) attached and Shark Trash wasn't even here (he better be six feet under because when Xanxus got out of here, he will tear the swordsman-scum a new one).

...

Then there was the cold.

...

"Subject number ten. Awaken. You have a mission."

He woke up not sure what was happening but after being debriefed, showed into a car and driven to the target, he remembered what they did. Who he was.

Wipe. They tried to wipe him. But he was stronger. He was stronger than all these scum and he won't give them the fucking satisfaction. They could all go suck a dick for all he cared.

They tried again and again and again. He sometimes forgot but then they send him out on a mission and he came back, remembering again. He tried to get a move on, to get rid of them, to escape, to rip them all limb from limb–

They gave him missions. Targets. Pointed him in a direction and told him to bark and snarl. To fetch. To bite. Like a dog. A mad dog. And he fuckin' did. He barked and growled and bit whenever they wanted and whomever they wanted. It was humiliating and he made sure to be as difficult as possible, killing a few supports and handlers (biting the hand that fed him) and trying to escape.

They always caught him. Always. He sometimes gazed at his fingers and remembered there being a ring. One with a blue gem with VARIA written on it and a silver crown on top.

That was his ring, Varia, the Vongola Famiglia's independent assassination squad's ring. And he was Xanxus the leader of Varia and don't touch me, scum, I will fuckin' rip you to shreds, trash–

And they would wipe him again.

...

It was cold when they pushed him back into the freezer. He looked out through the glass at the people gathered at the other side. There was his team, the support he completed the mission with. Or did he. No, he did. But he killed the old man with the mustache. It irritated him. The mustache. The man. So he got rid of him. Of both of them.

His handlers didn't like that. They didn't.

But what they wanted and didn't want wasn't on his mind right now. No, the only thought coursing through his head now was that HE WILL BURN THESE SHITHEADS DOWN!

Except he couldn't. The ice, it froze his Flames. His very will. Even after taking him out of the cold, his Fire was still frozen. Given enough time, it would thaw the ice and burst outwards, as was proven when one mission extended itself past the one month mark and he could finally access the Flames and burned a whole plane on his way back to the facility. The plane fell and he jumped off it to fly relatively safely back to the ground.

It was lucky that they didn't see a streak of light tear across the sky and land near the wreckage, taking it as just another flaming part of the plane. They would have experimented on him in no time flat, had they known.

He walked away from the crash, tried to put as much distance between it and himself as possible. But he was injured, tired and fucking hungry. Unused to so much time without food (even if they pumped him full of protein before he was sent on mission, that was three weeks ago). So it was only a matter of time before they caught him. He didn't even get further than 2 miles away from the wreckage when they found him, dragged him back and wiped him again. And put him back on ice.

...

Even though his Flames became useless in cryo and three (why was it always three, does it have anything to do with the Tri-Ni-Set?) weeks after cryo, he was always put back before his Flames could recover (his handlers didn't know that, they just thought that three weeks was a limit for him, after that he became erratic, ergo in need of a wipe and some sleep), they kept him alive. The Flames. They kept him alive through the freezing but before that, they kept him alive after his whole arm was cut off. Somehow, even after losing much more blood than any normal human would survive, he lived.

That's why they were so fascinated with him and why they chanced to put him in the freezer. Because he was different. A peculiarity. Something alien and unfamiliar to them. That was the reason why they kept him and why they thought he would be valuable. Because he had something in him that let him survive. Something that kept him alive through it all.

Even though he didn't believe in God, Xanxus prayed that they didn't find it, his Flames. Because if they find his one ace, he will never get away from them.

...

Xanxus. He was Xanxus. He needs to remember. He has the scars. They will keep reminding him. They always did. He needed to bid his time. He couldn't run, not now. Only wait until a perfect opportunity presented itself. Then he would burn them down.

When he started to forget his name, he knew that he needed to do something. Flames outside his body was a no thing. But inside? He was kept alive by his Flames coursing through his body while in the freezer. Would that mean that he could use them but inside?

So he tried and when there was a little flicker he was fucking ecstatic. He wasn't too good with the Mist Flames but he was decent. It wasn't too much of a challenge to make room in his head for his memories to store into. He stuffed them all in there, furious (afraid) that they just might succeed and take away his identity.

He would sooner die than give himself up. Fortunately, from what he saw, they had no idea what Dying Will Flames even were, yet. They thought his stint with the plane going down and himself an only survivor was just that, a onetime thing. How wrong they were. And how pathetically grateful he was that it was all they thought.

This way, he could lock his memories in a safe place, a place no one besides him could access. He was the only one in here (as far as he knew, but he didn't know, not really, so it was only a big fucking leap of faith in the lack of Flame-related knowledge of these people) who will know. And when the time came to destroy them, he will.

...

Every time they pulled him out, he couldn't walk. He stumbled around and needed to be helped along.

Maintenance came after cryo (always) and after missions when he was injured (very rarely). Maintenance was food (IV) a moment of rest to get him up to speed after being on ice and stitching of wounds.

There were also awards. Prizes such as the TV (now forbidden), alcohol (definitely forbidden), normal food (also forbidden but sometimes ignored) or good sleep were allowed only after a mission well done or exhibiting approved behavior (obedience). Needless to say, he rarely got prizes at the beginning of his stay.

They dressed and debriefed him. He tried to burn all the information into his brain, remember everything he was shown. Maybe he will get some advantage from this, maybe he will not, but knowledge was useful nevertheless. Knowledge was power.

And every time he came back from the mission dirty and bloody, they helped him to the shower, too.

It was disquieting. Their need to control everything about him.

They lead him to a room with a hose and a few buckets of water. There, they washed him with freezing water, using the hose and making him kneel (he will fuckin' make them kneel, make them crawl before him, and after he stepped in dog shit they will fucking lick it off, the scum, he will make sure of it, he fucking will and they better fucking thank him for his mercy when he blows off their heads).

Xanxus hated them all the more for it. He craved a hot bath and what he got was a cold fucking hose-shower. Fuck them, he thought, fuck them so much.

But he was compliant. He started following orders. He was careful in taking initiative, too much and they would think he was too independent, too little and they would think he needed some more directions.

So he listened and did whatever they wanted him to do, just like they requested of him.

But even as he was showed into a car or a plane and support seated themselves around him, he couldn't stop the buzzing in his head. Couldn't stop the thought that after what they did, after they put him on ice (just like him, him, the one to put him on ice for so many years, he put him on ice, he left him, and Xanxus trusted him, he trusted him, he just wanted the old man to be proud, be proud of me old fuck, see what I can do, who I am now, I'm not a street rat now, I'm a boss too, why would you lie to me about something so important, why did you give me false hope) he would slaughter them all.

He just needed an opportunity.

...

There was no past. There was no future. There was only mission.

They told him that and he listened and nodded along, not reaching for freedom anymore. He could wait. He was good at waiting. He could do waiting.

He was an asset. A weapon. Subject number ten. (Why the fuck was it ten? Were they mocking him? Did everyone must know about his failure? About how he didn't measure to the greatness of real Vongola blood? That he was just a poor street rat?)

That's what they called him. And he didn't say anything to that, just quietly seethed, trying to keep a fairly blank face. He wanted to show them, to have them cower from him, to have them scream from his orange and red Flames.

But he squashed the emotions for now. Later, he spat mentally, he would kill them all later.

...

Sometimes, after a mission well done, some of his companions for the job gave things to him. He received alcohol, once and only once. It was a shot of tequila and it made him remember flashes of Before. Remember what he was and what they made him into.

He was so enraged that he didn't even remember slaughtering his teammates from that mission and was found by his handlers a few days later, sitting on a pile of their bodies (were there five or eight, he didn't really care, the smell of sweat and blood and rotting flesh heavy in the air), blood all around him and over him, and a bottle of tequila clenched tightly in his scarred hand. It was half empty already.

They needed to drug him to his gills before they could remove the bottle. And even then he held on, fighting through the haze to hold onto something, and they needed to pry his fingers from it.

Other time, they gave him food and he accepted because when was the last time he swallowed something other than his blood. He teared into ration bars and jerky sticks and candy wrappers like an animal. Desperate for something, anything, other than the taste of death and ashes on his tongue.

He threw all of it back up. Vomited everything, from the smallest candy to the biggest piece of bread smeared with fucking strawberry jam (it was disgustingly delicious even if the bread was stale and there was no butter to help it slide down his throat and he bit his tongue and the inside of his cheek in order to chew it as fast as possible).

Why did they even have the strawberry jam with them was a fucking mystery to him, even after all these (days, months, years?)– even after all this time.

And he threw it up. But he didn't regret even one fucking bite of the candy or the bread or the ration bar.

Fortunately, they never stopped feeding him (even if it was through those fucking tubes, straight to his stomach, when he couldn't even taste anything), keeping up with the routine of unfreeze, get warm, get food, get dressed, debrief, mission, report, shower, chair, freezer. Rinse and repeat.

Food was an IV in his arm and a tube down his throat. When he was at the base they stuffed him full of vitamin and nutrients so that during the mission he didn't need to eat. And after three (and three sevens, wasn't that funny, why was that funny to him again) weeks (never longer, not after the first time when he burned the plane, the mission was always short), he was back in ice.

...

Once, they made him watch cartoons. Only when he was still too weak to go on mission but was awake and defrosted. He was the most amiable then, not having the strength or presence of mind (not that he had this one any other time, not anymore, not really, there were flashes still but mostly it was just a steady whisper of mission-mission-mission- and blaring of target-target-target) to refuse.

So after sticking some tunes into him or attaching an IV with nutrients and vitamins, they sat him in a chair in front of the TV and had him watching cartoons. Russian ones, of course, telling short stories about the capitalist pigs, slave drivers Americans and other westerners, who were self-centered and cruel. Depicted as fat and ugly, with golden rings on their stubby fingers and wearing expensive suits that ripped at the seams.

There was also the hero, of course, saving the day and beating up the villain. Some Russian soldier or spy, saving slaves from under the American rule and leading them towards freedom. Or attempting to help the poor and misguided. Or rescuing little girls.

There were other countries, too. Cowardly diplomatic French people. Foolish Poles. Evil Germans. Backwards Japanese.

French choked on their frogs and snails, fighting with bagels and running around with curly mustache. Poles fought with Russia for control over their country and when they got it, they ended up like Americans, eating their pączki instead of donuts and getting fat and disgusting. Germans gobbled down their finger-like (with fingernails) sausages and drank their pissy beer and shot at people while doing so. Japanese walked around in straw sandals and bathrobes, bumping into things, not seeing anything with their squinted eyes.

Hilarious, really. There were others that sometimes came to watch with him. Future mission support, more often than not, wanting to get to know each other. And they found it hilarious too.

And then they made him watch an episode about the shoe country, Italy, where everyone ate long macaroon (that was actually worms in blood) and slurped from fancy glasses (that had blood in it) and licked Germans' shoes.

And it wasn't funny anymore. So he wordlessly objected by chucking his chair at the TV.

They never had him watch another cartoon again. At least he didn't remember watching anything again.

...

After each mission they put him in the chair, wiped him and put him back into the ice. The freezer.

The chair was awful. It was uncomfortable and there was blood on it, his blood.

But the thing he really feared, the thing that made his blood run cold and himself freeze both literally and figuratively, was the cryo. It made his Flames freeze. It made them unresponsive. It made him unable to use his Weapons. To fight back. He could kill them but he knew that he won't manage to get them all. He knew that they would stop him (a sleeping gas or dart or what-the-fuck-ever and he will go down and they will put him on ice).

But even though he couldn't use them, he longed to have them here. The Lion-Tiger hybrid and his guns, plus the Varia ring.

The frozen Flames reminded him that he already spent eight years on ice, once upon a time.

He didn't know how long he was in this facility but it sure was too long.

...

In between the missions, he was put in cryo. When he was there, he didn't sleep, didn't rest. He just closed his eyes and waited (for the cold to come and then for the time when he was needed. That was the cryo. Endless waiting.

He was aware, on some level, when in there. He learned to expand his senses a long time ago and while he didn't have a Hyper Intuition like- like that scum (he couldn't remember the name but he did remember the envy and eventual acceptance still tinged with jealousy because he was supposed to be Decimo! Him and no one else–), his own Intuition was high above average.

So he was aware when it was time for him to go out again. To become the weapon again.

This time was no different. He knew when someone hit the button and opened the door. He stumbled forward and someone caught him, he didn't know who, his eyes were merely gazing forward, exhausted and with ice crusting his eyelashes. His limbs were leaden, his head jerking up and falling forward again and again. His half lidded eyes were blank and his brows were pulled down in a frown. His scars itched.

He could feel himself losing the fight with gravity and leaned all his weight on the person holding him up. He could only hope that he won't wake up during the shower, it was always unpleasant to be woken up by a spray of cold liquid.

...

The soldier looked at the body lying on the bed. Despite the natural tan, it looked pale and sickly. And even though the body's muscles were defined and hard, the scars multiple and all over, the hands rough and calloused, the face was that of a teenager. The stature too, there was room for growth there. Even if he was actually taller than the Soldier, by two inches, being 6'2. He was definitely skinnier, where the Soldier had bulk, shoulders wide and muscles big, the boy had his ribs showing and hip bones poking out and visible through skin. Apparently, even the nutrients they stuffed into him didn't help when the kid burned calories like nobody's business.

The soldier propped his chin on his joined fingers, leaning forward in his chair. The building they were currently staying in was far enough from his last known location (the burned facility) that nobody would think to look for them here and when somebody did, they would be long gone. It was abandoned, the interior sparsely furnished (whatever furniture there was, was overturned or broken or both) but there was a bed there. So he laid the body in it and spread a blanket over it, hoping to keep the chill at bay. The house was draughty, with old, broken windows, after all.

But as it was, he had more pressing things on his mind. Like the kid sleeping on the bed. The kid who survived the cryo and, from what the records said, was a weapon himself. Just like the soldier.

It was recorded (he knew because he read those records, after killing everyone in the facility that held the boy once upon a time, that is a few hours ago) that after the Soldier's own first wipes, he still remembered things but as he was exposed to the chair more and more often, he forgot. In time the only thoughts on his mind were only these facts: those are handlers, handlers are to be listened, mission is to be completed.

From the documents he took from the seemingly empty warehouse, he saw that it was the same case here. At first the subject (number ten, he gleamed from the records) remembered and screamed for all he was worth about revenge. It was noted as: Subject exhibits some minor homicidal tendencies but after a few months of hunting HYDRA and his former Russian employees (as was the case here, because this was not HYDRA's work but the KGB's, the Soviets') and reading his own files, he knew to read between the lines, he himself had a similar note in his profile.

But as time passed (they had him since 2006, a faint voice in his head whispered a Jesus Christ, that was eight years, they held him in there for eight years), the kid slowly became more and more of a weapon.

There were some other notes. His monologues about his allegiance (but there was no Varia, no Vongola, the KGB checked many times, no such names were used in the world, referring to the names of organizations or otherwise).

The soldier didn't remember his own name for a long time, didn't know who he was until the moment the Mission called out to him (Who the hell is Bucky?) and didn't remember his apparent friend's name (Steven Grant Rogers). Now he knew that he was an American soldier, not a Soviet. He had a friend (Stevie). He saw the exhibition at the Smithsonian. Remembered a little of his life before all this madness.

And he had a name for the one across the room from him, too. Xanxus. His name was Xanxus. He wore that name with pride, when he remembered at the beginning, spitting it in the face of HYDRA with such carelessness that the Soldier felt concerned despite himself.

There was an urge to squash the concern. Weapons didn't feel concern, didn't feel anything. But he wasn't a weapon anymore was he. He could feel all the concern in the world, nobody would stop him. Nobody could stop him. He was a free man. He was James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, the mission (Steve, his friend Steve) called him. He pondered it for a moment, carefully turning the name over in his head. He will have to get used to the name if he ever wants to live again (not normally, he knows it would never happen, nothing about this situation is normal) so he might as well start calling himself that.

He narrowed his eyes, not Bucky, it was... wrong on some level, to use that name. It sounded not right.

After a moment more consideration he settled on James. He would have to provide a name for his new potential companion. James will suffice. It will do. But not quite yet, he was still uncomfortable referring to himself as anything other than the asset or the weapon. We will cross this bridge when we come to it, came the sudden random thought and the soldier nodded along, agreeing.

The soldier assumed Xanxus was a reckless one. (The voice in his head pipes up once more, Sounds like someone I once knew, doesn't it Stevie.) Not thinking things through, not planning, only rushing into things and destroying, destroying everything in his path. Like fire.

His gaze lingered on the figure sleeping in the bed, swathed in blankets and multiple layers of clothing. The figure never even twitched except for breathing.

And as the boy slept, the soldier surveyed what he brought with him from the facility. A set of clothes, meticulously folded, bunch of colourful feathers along with some ribbons and beads, a ring, a strange box that couldn't be opened and two black guns with red Xs on the sides. All of these were carefully placed into plastic zipper bags, with numbers written neatly on the translucent material, categorizing the items as belonging to the raven haired boy. Catalogued as his only possessions.

He knew they were his because he took the files from the facility, not all of them, just general summary of the subject. He read the rest before he burned them, of course, but those were old mission reports, useless in the end. But the documents that described the things that were done to the boy, his history, his treatment at the Russian's hands, the Chair and the Cryo Chamber. Those files he brought along.

Then he placed the explosives and got the hell out of there, carrying a bag full of weapons, files and zipper bags, and a body.

Until that moment, his crusade to destroy all his former handlers and employees and whoever-had-him's bases was a way of finding himself, repenting and exacting revenge. But now, looking at the rise and fall of the blankets wrapped around the figure on the bed, he knew it wouldn't be only him spreading the destruction. And, strangely, he didn't mind as much as he thought he would. After all, they were the same.

The kid was practically his heir (his insides squirmed uncomfortably), getting wipes and freezing in the facility that once or twice held the Winter Soldier himself (that's why they had all the commodities, such as the Chair and the Fridge. But the facility's scientists went rouge sometime from eight to ten years ago, when they acquired the boy. They wanted to recreate the success that was the Winter Soldier). Suddenly, he wondered, if the kid was the only one or were there others, strewn around the globe, in chairs and freezers. Were they alive or were they dead?

The kid was practically a miracle, the serum didn't take to him or they didn't inject him with it or something but they put him in the cryo and he survived, how did that happen, he wasn't a mutant, they made tests, they found no X gene. Although the Xs on his guns and on his shoulders were regarded suspiciously, there was sound proof that the boy wasn't one of the X-men or anyone associated with them. The weapons also weren't ones of the mutants creations. Also, from the information he acquired, the weapons didn't work, they were regarded more like toys and potential mementos to the subject than weapons, really.

...

Steve looked around, taking in the bodies strewn around the floor and the blood pooling around them. There were no signs of struggle, clean shots in the backs of their heads took care of it. The thing that captured his attention, however, was not this. It wasn't the absolute mess of the room, wires and cables ripped out of the walls, smashed computers and machines sparking with electricity, lights flickering, water dripping.

Instead, his gaze was focused on the open metal door from which came weak mist. The small chamber, looking to be the size of a cupboard or smaller. It wasn't big enough to even sit in, whoever was placed there would have to stand. He squared his jaw and took a deep breath, blinking away the burning behind his eyes.

He sidestepped the bodies and moved closer to the chamber. When he stood directly in front of it, he saw that there were marks on the inside of the door. Scratches, not too deep, but still visible on the ice. And a bit of blood here and there, near the scratches. He swallowed. It looked like somebody tried to claw their way out of there. His fists clenched. He hoped against all that this facility wasn't one of the ones Bucky was held in.

"There's no files regarding whether he was here or not," he heard from behind him and turned, spotting Natasha coming up to him, completely disregarding the mess on the floor, "Some files have been taken, others burned. But there still remain the computers. A lot of them were destroyed. Whoever came here before us, they may have forgotten about them or simply didn't have the time to take care of each one individually. The explosion took out a majority of them but there remain some which still work. We can extract data from them, which Wilson is in the process of doing." She pointed her thumb over her shoulder at the doorway, indicating that Sam was somewhere else in the building, recovering information from the machines.

He nodded, "Good job. I was just-" he gestured around himself hopelessly but she just looked him in the eye and inclined her head. Her gaze followed his earlier observation, to the bloody scratches on the door. He was about to say something when the cracking in his ear interrupted him.

"Guys, you have got to see this. Oh man. That's some crazy shit right here, come up and just-" he heard Sam take a breath and expel it noisily, "Just come see this."

Steve looked at Natasha and she only raised an eyebrow at him, jerking her head at the exit, gesturing for him to go first.

"Coming, Sam," he responded, making his way out of the room without waiting for her. Whatever she wanted to do, he wasn't about to interrupt.

...

Natasha carefully looked around the room, taking in the placement of bodies, calculating the trajectory of the bullets to the brains. She carefully noted the open door to the cryogenic chamber and the patches of water on the floor, coming from the chamber and disappearing halfway across the room. They were here not so long ago.

She hummed to herself and pulled out a little vial from her jacket. She then scrubbed and caught in it the frozen blood from the chamber's door. She corked it close, pocketed it and made her way out of the room, already guessing what information Sam would have for them.

...

A breathy "What is this?" fell from Steve's mouth as he stared at the monitor in growing horror. Sam had a grim expression on his face, eyes not moving from the pictures displayed on the screen.

"It appears," he started delicately, trying to find the right words and coming to the conclusion that there were no words that would make this situation any less awful, "It appears that KGB decided that one frozen assassin was one frozen assassin too little. So they got themselves another one."

There were files on the multiple screens around him but the one that captured Steve's attention the most was the blue tinted picture of a boy's face, he couldn't be older than eighteen, in the cryo chamber. His eyes were closed but he didn't look like he was sleeping peacefully. No, what with the furrowed brows and frowning mouth, he actually appeared to be in pain. The scars framing his face certainly didn't make him look more at ease.

Steve all but collapsed into the chair next to Sam, head in his hands and looking like he wanted to cry, but not even for a moment did he turn his head away from the information. Sam was certain that he himself didn't look any better.

A quiet voice from begins them interrupted their horrified musings, "I took the blood sample," it was Natasha, strolling up to them and looking at the screens with a blank expression on her face. She clarified, looking at their confused faces. "From the inside of the chamber."

"There was blood in the chamber?" Sam found himself repeating after her stupidly, feeling confused, "It could be that these bad guys' blood got there in the skirmish. Because, you know, headshots and all, BAM!" He gesticulated around his own head for emphasis, poorly showing a shower of blood that must have exited from the backs of the scientists heads after being fucking shot.

Natasha shook her head, "They were standing too far for the splash to reach that door," she said.

"From what I saw, it looked like someone was clawing at it until their fingers started to bleed," added Steve, looking pale and sad, "God, how could they– He was just a kid!" He pointed wildly at the screens, suddenly looking furious and like he wanted to destroy something. Sam was proven right when after a moment Steve started reaching for the shield at his back, staring at the computer panels with rage in his eyes.

"Whoa! Stop right here!" He called, putting his hand on Steve's shoulder and squeezing, "We need those files. There may be some valid information about the KGB and HYDRA in there. Maybe even about Bucky. We need to bring it with us." When the blond still looked angry, he patted him on the back, "I know you're angry, man. We all are. But bashing the already damaged computers in with your shield and superhuman fists isn't going to help." Here he nodded at the cracked and flickering screens, some sparking wires coming from one of them.

Steve's expression didn't change but his shoulders did loosen up a bit. He shook his head and turned his gaze back to the files displayed before them. Sam would have quirked a smile but it didn't feel appropriate in this situation.

Natasha came closer, dragging a chair of her own and seating herself with her side to them, providing herself a clear view on the doorway and guarding their backs.

"There were pools of water on the floor in there," She started, feeling their attention focus on her again. "But they vanished halfway across the room. It looked like someone was let out of there and walked to the middle of the room, shedding the ice." She stopped, knowing she had their full attention. "Then, was picked up and carried out of the room. The water was still there, the bodies and blood fresh, the explosion preceding our arrival by only two hours. The explosives weren't placed with care, it looked more hurried and done absentmindedly. They wanted out of here. Or they had something that needed to be out of here. And from this, who do you think did it?" She asked, leaning back and waiting for them to connect the dots.

They did after only a few seconds and Steve stood up from his seat, "You mean Bucky took him?" She shrugged her shoulders.

"Maybe," she answered but seeing his impatience she continued. "Most likely. He was the one who stormed this facility, or at least you think so," he nodded. "So until we get proof, I'm not saying anything with absolute certainty. Those are only guesses."

...